


Fetish

by okapi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Body Fetish, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Exhibitionism, Held Down, M/M, Masturbation on camera, Scar Fetish, Sex for Money, Voyeurism, also fuck you Tumblr, sex on camera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-18 20:43:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17588072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Capt_Ormond_Sacker is just a scarred internet voyeur who wants to get off.Sharing-fjord Cock is just a scar-loving internet exhibitionist who wants to get paid.When a *certain* site cracks down on *adult content*, what's a match made in fetish to do?In celebration of the day they met (29 Jan) and for the Season of Kink Holiday Challenge. My assigned kinks were voyeurism, held down, and body fetish.





	1. Voyeurism

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to my beta [Small Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit).

Twenty seconds.

Twenty seconds of a clip on the internet, and John Watson was reaching for the drawer of the bedside table and the wallet within.

_Nice, long shaft jutting out of a thick patch of dark curly hair. Fingers wrapping around the base of the shaft. Long, elegant fingers. Gorgeous, in fact. Gorgeous fingers making a gorgeous fist, tiny squeeze at the bottom, then slow stroke up, twist, quicker stroke on the descent. Catching the light, shining from the slick. Shadowy, almost like an old black-and-white film. Those fingers. The prick that had, oh, yes, a slight bend to the left when it was stiff to bursting like it was there. Up and twist. A single tear from the slit in the prickhead. And down._

And— _stop_.

No!

John did not want the hand or the prick to stop. And he was prepared to pay for it.

He had an ‘emergency’ credit card. This was not, perhaps, an emergency, but it was a special occasion.

For once, John’s body was responding in a way that was familiar to him. His jeans were uncomfortable. He wanted to take them, and his pants, off and wank to porn like a normal bloke.

Normal blokes didn’t usually wank to internet porn at two in the afternoon, but then normal blokes usually had jobs and left hands and right legs and pricks that behaved as their brains dictated. They weren’t usually confined to bedsits while they waited to hobble to their next appointments. They could usually close their eyes and wank without hearing gunfire and inhaling dust and feeling stabs of fear, like bone-shattering bullets, slice through their chests.

Since John had been back, he’d thought about wanking, naturally. He’d tried. When open-eyed imagination failed, he’d searched for porn. But he found he couldn’t get off to any it, and after a while he stopped trying, diagnosing it as yet another problem he’d acquired in Afghanistan: along with phantom leg pain, the intermittent tremour in the hand, and the shoulder with the nasty scar.

John had decided that he was broken.

Until that twenty second clip.

Something about that prick. Or was it the hand?

Before his injuries, John had thought himself omnivorous in his sexual appetite, but his reaction to that prick (or the hand) suggested that he might, in fact, have a type.

That type. Whatever it was.

After a bit of clicking and pecking, John had what he wanted. Then, like a squirrel, he scurried about the bedsit: making certain the door was locked and the blinds closed; finding a couple of flannels, a bottle of water, and some lube; and stripping himself from the waist.

He sat on the edge of the bed with the laptop on a wooden chair in front of him.

Let it be worth it, he prayed as he clicked the big arrow.

The image began to move, and the blood in John’s upper body traveled southward en masse, settling in his prick.

“Oh, yeah.”

_Prick, still long, still lean, still mouth-wateringly gorgeous, difficult to discern the left bend in its half-hard condition but certain that will change very, very soon. Lovely lickable lines between pale skin and dark curly hair. Would love to know the texture of that skin and that hair. Oh, the hand! Long, elegant fingers shining with slick in the warm light. Soft, light, teasing strokes, on the underside, on the top, a gentle squeeze of the prickhead, and the whole sequence over again. Come on, soldier, stand up straight. Full attention. Oh, god. There you go. Yes, left bend, yes._

John looked down, surprised to find his own prick in a similar state of erection. Without being aware of it, he’d slicked his own hand and had been stroking himself in time with the video. Lust pooled between his legs. It was wonderful. Wonderfully normal. He would simply follow along.

Legs spreading. Knees wider apart. Oh, yeah. Show off that gorgeous prick. Leaning in, giving a nice eyeful. Fingers wrapping ‘round shaft. Nice, easy stroke from base to tip. Another. And another. Speeding up? No. Another gorgeous hand comes down to cup the balls. Oh, god, yes. Leaning back. Yeah. Showing off how you brush the taint with your thumb. Slow, almost awkwardly slow, strokes while playing with yourself, taking time, drawing it out. Rolling those sacs over your fingers, squeezing them, all of it, all of you, so bloody suckable, sucking those balls, sucking those fingers, sucking that prick—

John tried, and failed, to catch a long drip of saliva as it made its way from his mouth to the floor. He’d clean up after. And, he chuckled, it was all very drool-worthy. He was hard and ready; he hoped there wouldn’t be much more preamble.

And there wasn’t.

_Leaning in. One hand on the base. The other in a tight fist. Squeezing. Pumping. Fast. Ugh. That’s right. Show me. Pump it harder. Shaft, prickhead, base. Faster, that’s right, tighter. Oh, so tight. Like it hurts! Oh, god, yeah, make a mess of that sheet, you gorgeous cock, spit all over it. Oh, so good. UGH! Ooooh! Look what you made me do, gorgeous, look what you made me do, make a mess of myself like a lad, like a park-bench pervert at two o’clock in the afternoon, I am kind of a perv, but, god, that felt good._

John smiled and looked down at the mess on his belly and the lower hem of his vest.

He wasn’t broken. Not at all.

Tears stung his eyes. He blinked them back and sniffed. He felt peaceful and content and, he realised, very grateful.

He was grateful to the person on the screen, the person whose performance had got him out of his head long enough to do something very simple, yet very satisfying. He knew it was a job, that the person did it for money, but nevertheless, John was grateful, really awash in gratitude, and so, before his reserve could catch up and sober him and before the post-wank afterglow faded, John leaned forward and typed in the message box.

**Thank you so much. I’m not broken after all. You’re gorgeous.**

John hit send, then gasped with horror as the button faded.

‘Please wait, sending.’

“Oh, fuck. What the hell did I do?” muttered John. He distracted himself from sharp pangs of horror and regret by quickly dampening a flannel with water from the bottle and cleaning himself. He dried himself with the other flannel and then mopped up the chair and floor. “Why did I send that ridiculously pathetic message? Gorgeous Prick probably thinks I’m a sad wanker on the internet. Well, I am a sad wanker, but I mean, Christ, I really should think before I type things.”

John sighed, then looked at the screen, which now read, ‘Message Sent.’

“At least it’s private. And probably not uncommon. What’s the person’s name? Sharing-fjord Cock. Pronouns: He/him.” John began to chuckle. His chuckling turned to full-blown laughter when he noted the name of the web site. “Fumblr. Sharing-fjord Cock on Fumblr. Right. Well, I’ve certainly got nothing to feel pathetic about anymore! Thank you, Mister Cock. Twice.”

Hit by a sudden wave of drowsiness, John removed his vest and tossed it and the flannels into the laundry bin and crawled into bed.

He curled the bedclothes ‘round him and drifted off to sleep with a smile on his lips.

And slept for twelve peaceful, dreamless hours.

* * *

“I’m glad you called, John, and I must say you look better than last week.”

“Amazing what a good night’s sleep will do,” said John, finding no difficulty this time in returning Stamford’s easy smile.

“Didn’t I tell you? Just what the doctor ordered!” cried Stamford with a chuckle. He slapped both palms on the top of this desk in a ‘Let’s get to work’ gesture. “All right. Your scar. And what to do about it.” He swiveled in his chair and searched the bookshelf behind him.

“Damn!” Stamford muttered under his breath. “Oh, you perfect sod!”

“What?” asked John, noting the gap-tooth in the volumes.

“Someone’s pinched my Collins.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “Are medical textbooks on surgical remedies for scars that popular?”

“Among a very slim, very annoying minority,” replied Stamford.

“Not easy to miss if it’s still the same as it was.”

“Oh, yes, it is still the same,” said Stamford. “Six editions later, and no one can think of a better design for a cover than an electric orange horseshoe crab. Well,” he swiveled the screen of his desk computer towards John, “Collins’ photos are better, but I can still show you here what your possibilities are…”

* * *

It was three days before John signed into the Fumblr web site. There was a notice in large letters on Sharing-fjord Cock’s page.

By now all of you must be aware of the new Fumblr policy banning ‘adult content’ which goes into effect 29 January. I’m afraid this policy puts me out of business, but as a last hurrah, I’m holding a raffle. Three lucky winners will get a private, live viewing on 28 Jan, one slot each for morning, mid-day, and night. Exact hours, ticket price, and how to play are below.

John read up on the Fumblr policy changes, which, he decided, were rather stupid in principle and would probably be clumsily and inefficiently applied, but he also felt a stab of self-pity. Why was it when he finally found something that worked, something that helped him, that life seemed to want to stick it to him in the neck and take it away?

John didn’t know, but he didn’t have much time to wallow in the misery of it either because when he read the price of the lottery ticket, his jaw dropped.

It would be completely reckless, wholly irresponsible for him to spend that amount of money on something so inconsequential as a private internet voyeur session.

John bore no animosity towards Mister Cock. He sympathised, in fact. John understood that this policy change impacted him harshly, that he would have to find a new platform and set up a new web site and would probably lose some income in the meanwhile and perhaps a bit permanently if clients went elsewhere. He had to take advantage of the situation and make as much money as possible before the ban took place. Nevertheless, the cost was tantamount to highway robbery for John. And in the end, it might be all for nothing. John might not, probably would not, win.

John sighed. And rubbed his eyes. And laid down on the bed. And stared at the ceiling. And tried to put the whole maddening business out of his mind.

Then he sat up and reached for his wallet.

* * *

He’d won.

John read the message ten times before he believed it.

He’d won. He was going to watch Sharing-fjord Cock wank. Live!

John told himself he would have to try and memorise everything, to imprint it on his brain for later.

A strange effervescence filled in John’s chest. He was looking forward to something. He had not done that in a very long time. He supposed that before life stuck it to you in the neck, sometimes it offered you a consolation prize.

He quickly clicked the link in the message to confirm and began to count the days.

**Ready?**

“Ready when you are,” said John. He had tried to not to let himself get too excited, worried that something would go wrong and that he’d be crushed by disappointment if the session didn’t come off as expected. But as the day, then the hour neared, John began to feel restless and by the morning of the 28th, he would’ve been pacing his bedsit if it could have been done easily and painlessly.

When John clicked the big black arrow, he was most decidedly ready, naked beneath the untied bathrobe, with flannels and lube and water by his side, and with a prick half-hard with anticipation.

**Shall I unmute?**

The question surprised John. He quickly considered the pros and cons.

“Why not?”

He clicked ‘Yes.’

As the image came into focus, there as a rustling and the tell-tale pop of a cap. Then a deep inhale and an exhale.

_Shoulders to shins. More of the stage. Bedroom. Bedsit, hotel room, difficult to say, ordinary, unremarkable. Sitting much like John, on the edge of the bed, end not side, much larger bed than John’s. Gorgeous skin, smooth, even, as if it would be cool to the touch. Bit too thin. Like a nude sculpture, one of those young gods or an emperor’s boy toy. Dusting of dark chest hair but otherwise next to nothing until the bits. Lickable torso. Lick the too-prominent ribs, lick the plane of the belly, lick the hip bones. Gorgeous nipples. Suckable, bitable, god, let him—_

“Oh, yeah.”

As if John’s desire had been known, a hand travelled up the body, and the fingers that John already lusted after began to tease one of the nipples. When both buds were darkened, wet pebbles, John looked down.

He was hard, so bloody hard. He had to take it easy or the whole thing would be over before it began. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. His earlier worry had been that he would never come again and now he was worried about coming too soon. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

_Baritone hum. Like that? Nice and hard now. Stroking shaft while you play with your balls. Slow. Like we got all afternoon. Prickhead crying? Oh, that’s a better view. Close-up. Yeah, it is. Leaking. Want a taste? That’s right. Take a drop on that pretty fingertip of yours and slurp! What a filthy boy you are! I’d suck you dry. Choke myself to death trying and expire a happy man. Vein, slick, hair, the fingers, too. Show off those heavy bollocks, show off the taint, too. Pretty little hole. Lickable hole. Tongue-fuck it all night. Oh, you like everything, don’t you? Fuckitty-fuck. That long, long finger deep inside—_

John closed his eyes again. The grip he had around his own shaft was tight, and he began to pump fast and furious. His prick, sinking into that hole, spreading that arse, ploughing it raw. And that finger, well, if it wanted to be buried deep inside him, John would welcome it. Probably beg for it like a tart that he was. That’s how gone he felt. He could think of nothing but how tight and hot and wonderful that hole would feel ‘round his prick. He’d fuck it so well. He’d fuck the whole of that bastard from tits to toes better than he’d ever been fucked before—

Taking it easy wasn’t going to be possible. John swallowed. His body tensed. He heard low, unintelligible grunts coming from the laptop, then a clear, sharp bark.

“Not yet.”

John’s eyes fluttered open.

“Don’t come yet.”

Bastard. How did he know—? Well, he was a professional. He probably knew quite a lot about the when and how of orgasm, especially the poor sods who paid king’s ransoms to watch him.

“Very well,” said John, rather shakily. He released his grip on himself.

All right. Together. Fists ‘round pricks. Stroking up, down, twist. Too slow. That’s better. Much better. Not gonna last much longer. Oh, god. Two fingers up in there? Pumping in and out of that sweet lickable, fuckable hole. My cock’s bigger, would stretch you better, but, admittedly, not quite so agile. Oh? Seeing stars? Heh, heh. Occupational hazard, I suppose, you fuck yourself too well. Yeah, take those fingers out. Give that gorgeous cock the two-fisted wank it deserves. Yeah, yeah, hard, fast, don’t let go, I’m not, not for a king’s ransom, you gotta be close, I’m so close—

So many things happened in the next few moments that it was not until much later that John remembered the sequence correctly.

First, John came. It was a long, hard, satisfying release that made him feel as if he were flying, floating, utterly victorious in something. He also noted, with detachment, it had made a great, satisfying mess on his hands among many other places.

Second, the person on the screen groaned, a bit theatrically, and as he groaned, he also quickly jumped onto the bed and tucked his legs under him. He leaned forward and came, prick in hand, shooting impressively long milky streams on the dark bedclothes. John imagined those streams decorating the back of his throat, and the bitterness as he swallowed.

Third, there was a loud, content sigh, also John thought, a bit theatrical, and the person, Mister Cock, John corrected himself, sat back on his own heels.

But then the camera jerked very abruptly and very unexpected to the side, almost as if it had been hit by something.

Immediately, there was a sharp intake of breath followed by a soft ‘fuck.’ John watched a hand, that gorgeous hand, reach for a small, thin, shiny black rectangle.

A remote control.

The camera shifted back to its original position, but not before John had been given a view of the floor of the room and the long edge of the bed. Something curious was sticking out from under the bed.

It was a thick book. And it had a large electric orange horseshoe crab on the cover.

John dissolved into a fit of giggles. He hugged himself as his body shook with laughter.

Part of him knew he was still high from the wank. Nothing else could prompt such a ridiculous reaction. Nevertheless, he felt powerless to stop himself from being carried away by the emotion. It was not gratitude, though John was grateful, it was joy.

And so, joyfully, John leaned forward, his hands still sticky, and began to type into the message box.

**If you like scars, gorgeous, have I got one for you!**


	2. Scar Fetish

Five seconds.

Five seconds after reading the message—

**If you like scars, gorgeous, have I got one for you!**

—Sherlock Holmes was doing something he had never done before, namely, clicking on a box to open a two-way chat with a punter.

**Really? Where’s the scar?**

It was not, admittedly, the question of greatest interest to Sherlock, and the fact that it was not the question of greatest interest to Sherlock was evidence of Sherlock’s altered state of mind. Altered because Sherlock liked scars. A lot.

Also, given what had just transpired between the two of them, the question Sherlock had just typed invited a host of possible replies, most of the tedious variety.

The reply that arrived, however, was refreshingly simple and straightforward.

**Left shoulder.**

Another message immediately followed.

**The visible scar, that is.**

Invisible scars did not interest Sherlock. Everyone had those. He typed.

**How did you know I like scars?**

Now that _was_ the question of greatest interest to Sherlock. Typing it, even thinking it, made Sherlock feel odd. The question was so often posed to him— _how did you know, Mister Holmes? how did you know, you bastard?_ —but Sherlock hadn’t posed it himself to another since childhood.

**Collins. On the floor.**

Sherlock instinctively turned his head to see the book peeking out from under the bed. At once, his mind began to put the pieces together. A punter who recognised an obscure medical textbook by sight. A punter who had a scar on a left shoulder. And invisible scars elsewhere. A punter whose user name was, Sherlock turned back and glanced at the screen, Capt_Ormond_Sacker. Sherlock clicked on the user profile, which was blank save for the date he’d opened the account, which was a week ago; location, which was London; and the pronouns box where ‘he/him’ was ticked.

Sherlock should have ended the session right then, politely or impolitely. It was over. This Captain Ormond Sacker had paid his money and got his show. That should have been it.

But that wasn’t it.

Because of the scar.

Sherlock was intrigued by the scar, and he wanted to know if the conclusion at which he’d arrived about Captain Ormond Sacker was correct, so he typed.

**Military?**

The reply came at once.

**Ex. Army.**

**Doctor?**

**Ex, too, thanks to a bullet.**

His deduction had been confirmed, but rather than satisfied, Sherlock was now more than intrigued by the scar, he was also intrigued by the story behind it and the person who bore it.

**Wounded in action?**

**Yes.**

**Afghanistan or Iraq?**

**Afghanistan**

A war wound, a _bullet_ wound, to the left shoulder. Even though he’d just come, Sherlock’s prick stirred. He knew what he wanted, what his baser self wanted, that was. But to act on such a desire was reckless, wholly reckless. And irrational. And it would violate every rule and condition that Sherlock had put on himself when he started this wank-on-camera-for-money business.

Nevertheless, he typed.

**Would you consider sending me a photo of the scar? I like scars.**

Sherlock held his breath. If Captain Sacker had any sense, he would end the session now. Part of Sherlock wished he would. It would only take one click to disconnect and be done with it and with Sherlock.

**What are you going to do with it?**

A fair question, which Sherlock answered half-truthfully.

**Study it.**

**That’s all? Study?**

Sherlock tapped his lips and held a one-second debate. Frankness won out.

**Possibly wank to it. I won’t share it. With anyone, anywhere.**

Now. Right now, Captain Sacker should click the ‘x’ at the top right corner of the screen and forget he ever heard of, communicated with, or wanked to anyone as ridiculously named as Sharing-fjord Cock.

**:D**

Sherlock bit his lip. This was madness. Why was he doing this? He just wanted to get paid! And he had got paid! Nevertheless, he was just about to sweeten the deal by offering to refund payment of the lottery ticket when a message popped up.

**Give us a minute. I’m pants at this stupid phone.**

It was the longest three minutes of Sherlock’s life, which he divided between silently flogging himself for his idiotic weakness and silently thanking a god in whom he did not believe for the simple, scarred creature that was Captain Ormond Sacker.

“Oh,” sighed Sherlock when he clicked on the thumbnail to enlarge. “It’s gorgeous.”

**So are you. Have fun. I’m done for. Ta.**

And with that, Captain Ormond Sacker was gone, and Sherlock realised that he’d forgot to switch off the camera and microphone.

Sherlock transferred the image to his phone and saved it. Then he disconnected from the web site and switched off the camera and microphone. He cleaned himself, then he stripped the bed and moved the copy of Collins to an open box by the wall.

Sherlock liked scars. A lot. The images in the textbook excited him for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely. He’d pinched the Collins for this day, the day when he was slated to give three top-shelf performances, just in case he needed extra, outside stimulus.

Collins was his Viagra, his wank mag. Unconventional choice, Sherlock knew, but what about Sherlock _wasn’t_ unconventional?

Sherlock wrapped a dressing gown ‘round himself, remade the bed, and sat on the lone chair in the room, an uncomfortable wooden affair. He wanted to smoke but instead he thought about Captain Ormond Sacker.

Sherlock had chosen him on purpose, of course. He’d chosen all three winners on purpose. The other two were easy choices: they were the most lavish tippers of Sherlock’s top tier subscribers. But Captain Sacker had been different.

_Thank you so much. I’m not broken after all. You’re gorgeous._

It was a pathetic message.

Sherlock got hundreds of pathetic messages every day. He also got vile ones, violent ones, and morbid ones. But something about this pathetic message— _I’m not broken after all_ —had slipped like a long, thin scalpel between Sherlock’s ribs and nicked him somewhere deep inside. Like puncturing a lung. It was something about the combination of ‘not broken’ and ‘after all.’

And when Captain Ormond Sacker had coughed up the money for the lottery ticket, Sherlock had decided to—what was that useful phrase?—throw a dog a bone.

But that was before. Now Sherlock knew more.

Invisible scars.

Impotency was an invisible scar that an ex-army doctor wounded in action might easily have.

But Captain Sacker didn’t. Thanks to Sherlock? Perhaps.

“Sharing-fjord Cock, fairy wank-father,” said Sherlock with a bit of pride.

And now it seemed the universe had rewarded Sherlock’s beneficence in the unconventionally wonderful form of a photo of a scar, an exceedingly wankable photo of a scar.

Sherlock wanted to wank to the photo right then, but he decided to wait. Later, he would take a long look before he went online with the final lottery winner. Yes, that was a much smarter plan. Put his good fortune to work. He knew, just from the first glance, that it was the kind of image that would serve the purpose very nicely.

“Oh!”

Sherlock quickly returned to the computer and put through Captain Ormond Sacker’s refund.

Taking that much money from a punter on an army pension was cruel and, perhaps, unpatriotic, though Sherlock wasn’t ever one to give Queen and country much thought—that was Mycroft’s bailiwick. And as much as Sherlock wanted to get paid, he much preferred to suck the bloodsuckers, not battered war heroes just trying to have a toss.

And, what’s more, the photo of the scar was payment enough.

* * *

_The type of gun. The type of bullet. The distance from which it was fired. The angle at which it hit. How he had be positioned when he was hit. How he had fallen. Treatment. Infections. Any distinguished mark underneath like a tattoo or birthmark. So much to know just by looking at it. But then, of course, ask to confirm. There was always something. That was the beautiful part. Surprises._

_Note changes in colour in response to heat and cold. Step out of a nice, hot shower, towel off, and there it would be. Look at it. Study it. From all angles._

_Touch it. Oh, god. Mapping it with fingers, every ridge, every line, every crevice, over and over. Find out if there was any nerve sensation at all anywhere. Study the line where scarred tissue met healthy tissue like the place where the sea met land._

_Lick it. All of it. Create another map from the touch of tongue. A challenge, to be certain, because bloody transport would be so distracted. Traitorous prick would be so stiff. He’d have to…_

Sherlock jumped up and knelt on the bed for the money shot.

_…shoot his load all over it. Make a mess of it. Clean it up. With his tongue if allowed. Oh, god._

Sherlock discretely reached a hand behind himself, found the remote control hidden in the bedclothes and turned off the camera. Then he cleaned himself with a wet flannel. A message arrived from the punter, but he didn’t read it. Sherlock signed out of Fumblr, collected his phone and a blanket, turned out the lights, and crawled to the top, that is, the unstained portion, of the bed.

Then he curled the blanket ‘round himself and studied the photo until his eyelids drooped.

“Gorgeous,” he said as he tucked the phone beside him and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_Lips pressed to the back of Sherlock’s neck. Soft lips, but slightly chapped. The voice that spoke was low and husky and full of seduction._

_“Hello, gorgeous. Dreaming of me?”_

_“Yes, Captain,” replied Sherlock shakily as a bare left arm curled ‘round in front of him. Sherlock turned his head as far as possible to the left, longing to catch sight of the scar. “Or should I call you ‘sir’?” he added._

_There was a rumble of laughter, amused but knowing. An unclothed chest with a delicious bit of hair rubbed against Sherlock’s bare back, and a knobby prickhead was nudging between his buttocks._

_“Either’s fine, but I suspect you haven’t called anyone ‘sir’ in your life.”_

_“Not true,” countered Sherlock quickly. “But not recently,” he admitted._

_The lips were kissing down Sherlock’s spine one vertebrae at a time. Latin names of bones swirled ‘round. Once more, Sherlock tried to twist to see, but in vain. He couldn’t see anything._

_The body shot up Sherlock, then laid heavy on him. It was a good feeling, Sherlock decided after a moment. He felt anchored. Grounded. Not trapped._

_A hard, commanding voice said,_

_“You’re going to be held down.”_

_Something in Sherlock’s memory stirred. Held down. But the voice was still speaking, barely above a whisper, but with a firm gentleness._

_“You’re going to be fucked.”_

_Fucked. That sounded good. Very good._

_“Then you’ll get your scar. Deal?”_

_A kiss to Sherlock’s temple served to seal the offer._

_Sherlock whimpered. “Deal.”_

_Hands pinned Sherlock’s forearms to the bed. A lower body pinned Sherlock’s to the bed. They remained like that for a long moment, but Sherlock didn’t fight, didn’t resist._

_Then Sherlock was being rolled slightly to one side. A hand slid between the bodies, and a slicked finger began to probe Sherlock’s hole._

_“Fuck. What have you been doing to yourself?” demanded the voice._

_“Fingering my anus on camera for strangers while I masturbate.”_

_Another chuckle. “Well, at least you’re honest. I know you like this.” The weight of the lower body still lay heavy on Sherlock, but the second hand released his and an arm wrapped ‘round Sherlock’s waist. A hand fondled his balls. “And this.” The fingers caressed a path towards Sherlock’s hole. “Don’t you? Say ‘yes, sir’ or I’ll stop.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“That’s nice. Like you’ve been saying it your whole life.” The hand moved back to Sherlock’s prick and gave it a slow, slicked stroke from base to tip. A second finger was now buried in Sherlock’s arse. A nuzzle of nose and lips to the side of Sherlock’s head tousled his hair._

_A sniff. A sigh._

_“I think you’re ready to take my fat prick.”_

_“More than ready.”_

_“You want the scar that badly?”_

_Sherlock nodded._

_“What are you going to do to it?”_

_“Observe it. Touch it. Lick it. Wank on it. Lick it again.”_

_That chuckle. “And for that you’ll do something you detest?”_

_“I don’t detest it,” insisted Sherlock, trying once more to look back but seeing nothing. “I don’t do things that I detest. Ever. It’s just that I like the other better. Differently.”_

_“Very well. Horses for courses. For the record, I think I’m going to like this way too much.”_

_Sherlock felt the intrusion, then welcomed the burn. He lifted his left leg higher and arched his back. A hand was still stroking his prick the way Sherlock himself did when he wanted to draw things out._

_“Oh, fuck.” Sherlock felt the oath as a blast of hot breath on his skin. Teeth pinched Sherlock’s neck, then a tongue soothing the spot as the prick sank deeper, stretched Sherlock more. “So good.”_

_Finally, the prick stilled, fully-sheathed._

_“All right, gorgeous?”_

_“Of course,” snapped Sherlock. “Do get on with it!”_

_“Uh-huh. No bottoming from the top or I’m gone and taking my scar with me.”_

_Sherlock spoke with a forced evenness, tinged with pleading, “Yes, sir.”_

_“That’s better. Okay. Here we go.”_

_The prick began to pound. The hand began to pump. But where was the scar?_

_A sudden panic gripped Sherlock._

_“Captain?!”_

_“Shhh! It’s coming. When I do.”_

Sherlock woke. He sat up and looked down.

“Oh, piss off.”

But Sherlock’s erection would not piss off, so he crawled out of his blanket cocoon, flung wide the drawer of the bedside table and grabbed the lube. Then he threw a pillow at the wall and flung himself back against it.

He got his phone, pulled up the photo of the scar, took a long look, then closed his eyes.

_“There it is. I couldn’t make you wait.”_

_The prick thrust inside Sherlock. The fist slid and squeezed along Sherlock’s prick with violent speed and strength._

_Sherlock wasn’t certain where the Captain was, but the scar, somehow, was before him._

_Right before his eyes. In all its glory._

_Sherlock couldn’t help it. He moaned aloud._

_“You’re a bit of a slag for it, aren’t you?” teased the voice._

_“I’m a bit of a slag period or hadn’t you noticed? Idiot.”_

_Teeth pinched Sherlock’s neck. “Stop it. Don’t insult yourself, and don’t insult me. Got it?”_

_Sherlock was so close. The scar was right there. He could almost touch it. He could almost taste it._

_“Yes, sir!”_

_The bed springs began to whine, and the short, unbalanced legs of the bed rattled a staccato rhythm on the floor._

_“Oh, fuck!”_

_Sherlock’s body stiffened, then he was coming all over the scar, decorating it with milky spurts. He leaned forward, opened his mouth, tasted the bitterness on the tip of his tongue—_

—and found himself licking his phone.

“Goddammit!”

Sherlock withdrew his hands from himself, found a flannel and a bottle of water, and cleaned hands and body. Then he threw on his dressing gown and set about cleaning his bloody phone with much less haste and much more care than he had cleaned himself.

Captain Ormond Sacker.

Sherlock could message him, something simple. ‘Had a great wank. Thanks.’ And if the Captain wanted to message him back, well, that’d be okay, and if they struck up a specimen of understanding of the online sort, well…

Maybe Captain Ormond Sacker had already messaged _him_.

Sherlock went to his laptop—just to check.

“GODDAMMIT!”

Sherlock had forgot the stupid ban had gone into effect at midnight!

He read the message notifying him that his Fumblr account no longer existed. Even though he had known the moment was coming, he still growled in frustration. Well, he wouldn’t waste one more precious moment of thought on idiots who considered the best way to protect their profits was to call it protecting children and ban adult content on a web site for adults.

Sharing-fjord Cock was dead.

And it was time for Sherlock Holmes to lay him, and Captain Ormond Sacker, to rest and get on with more important matters.

Sherlock looked about the room. He’d have to be out by the end of the week. He had made enough money from the lottery to consider the Baker Street flat, even to live there by himself for a month or two, but not for long. He’d eventually need a flatmate. Or a cheaper place. Or sell the Strad.

His eyes feel on the book on the top of the box, the book with the electric orange horseshoe crab on the cover, and he got an idea. He reached for his phone.

**Collins. My office. Noon. Then we’ll talk, you book-thieving bastard. MS**

Sherlock smiled.

* * *

“Sorry I’m late—”

A blonde man, thin as a lathe and brown as a nut and holding, but not leaning on, a cane, stood in the doorway of Stamford’s office.

“Come in, John,” said Stamford. “John Watson, an old friend from medical school.”

The man limped into the room and extended a hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock shook hands and gave a curt nod, but his mind was whirring, and his eyes danced like spider’s legs over the newcomer’s features.

Was it? Could it be? What were the odds? Sherlock would calculate the odds later, but for now, he remembered his own axiom.

No matter how improbable…

“Am I interrupting, Stamford? I thought you said—”

“No, not at all, John. I was just—”

Sherlock had to test his theory. He interrupted. “Stamford, can I borrow your phone?”

“Uh, let’s see. Oh, bollocks! I left it in the lab. Wait just a minute, John.”

Stamford hurried out.

Sherlock spoke slowly and carefully and made a gesture towards to the bookshelf behind the desk.

“I returned Collins.”

He watched the emotions on the man’s face, like clouds, change shape, darken then grow pale.

It _was_ him.

He gave Sherlock a up-and-down glance, then swallowed and wiped his brow and winced.

“Sit, please” said Sherlock, gesturing to one of two guest chairs in the office. Sherlock took the other one. Then came the old familiar question.

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t know. I saw,” Sherlock spoke softly, gently. “Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But old friend of Stamford’s from medical school. So, doctor, army doctor. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s bad when you walk but you didn’t ask for a chair right away, like you’d forgot about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. Invisible scar? It also says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq. Yesterday I met an ex-army doctor with invisible scars who was wounded in action in Afghanistan. His name was Captain Ormond Sacker.”

Sherlock waited.

The smile that split the man’s face was the second most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever seen from Captain Ormond Sacker. It went all the way up to his eyes and made Sherlock’s chest warm and his heart beat a bit faster.

“That was amazing.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose.

“Do you think so?”

“Of course, it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off’!”

The chuckle was very much like the one Sherlock had dreamt.

“But if you can do that, why are you…?” He made a masturbatory motion with his fist.

Sherlock made a different gesture, the one for money. “But I’m not anymore. As of today, I’m banned.”

“Yeah, I saw that.” John Watson looked down and shook his head and tapped his foot with his cane. “What are the odds?”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted to John’s left shoulder, and he made another leap.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

John lifted his head. Sherlock met his wide-eyed gaze.

“I told Mike that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. He said he would help if I returned Collins. You’re just home from military service.” Sherlock shrugged. “Not a difficult leap to make. I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.”

John shook his head ruefully. “I can’t afford ‘nice.’ And I definitely can’t afford Central London, even with a flatmate.”

No! This couldn’t be the end. This was the beginning. It felt like the beginning. It had to be beginning.

“Just have a look? Tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”

Sherlock took out a card and began to scribble on it.

“Very well, Mister Sharing-fjord Cock.” John began to giggle, which was a delightful sound which in no way resembled the Captain of Sherlock’s dream. “You know, I was coming here to tell Stamford I was no longer interested in the surgery to fix my scar.”

Sherlock looked up. “But It’s doesn’t need fixing!” he cried. “It’s perfect!”

That smile. “I know. Now.”

Hurrying steps in the hallway.

Sherlock thrust the card at John and stood. He paused in the doorway, almost colliding with Stamford, turned back and said,

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is two two one B Baker Street. Afternoon.”

As he waltzed down the hall, Sherlock heard Stamford say,

“Yeah, he’s always like that.”

* * *

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

“That wasn’t just me.”

“Will you take the room upstairs, John?”

The light from John’s eyes faded. Sherlock felt the disappointment like a punch to the gut. “You being extraordinary doesn’t make me less broke, Sherlock. I can’t afford it. Even half. I’m sorry.”

“In three months, you will be back on your feet.”

“Maybe. But I don’t have three months’ rent.”

Sherlock saw a sign flash before his eyes—In case of emergency, break glass—and raised a mallet to strike.

“What if there were a way—”

But Sherlock didn’t have the opportunity to finish his statement, to break the glass, and to make John a most indecent proposal for acquiring the ready cash they both needed so desperately.

Sherlock didn’t have the opportunity because Angelo was knocking at the door and returning John’s cane, and John was wholly and rightly distracted by the sudden evaporation of his psychosomatic wounds. As soon as reality began to settle, Mrs. Hudson was hurrying down the stairs and crying “Sherlock, what have you done?” and informing Sherlock and John that upstairs there was a drug bust underway headed by Lestrade and being carried out by enthusiastic volunteer Yarders.

And then, well, there was a serial killer to catch.

* * *

When it was all over, Sherlock was picking at his dim sum, waiting until John had finished his first beer, to attempt to break the glass once more.

“I have a proposal for you, John.”

“Great,” said John, smiling. “Your brother’s expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week.”

Sherlock committed the moment to his memory in case the ones that followed were not so pleasant.  


	3. Held down

“We met yesterday and now you’re asking me to star in a pornographic film with you?!” hissed John.

“You just killed a man for me less than three hours ago!” retorted Sherlock in the same low, urgent voice though there were few patrons left in the Chinese restaurant to overhear them.

John’s mobile buzzed. Grateful for the distraction, he looked down and read the figure Sherlock had just texted him.

“Pounds?!” he cried.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “That’s what he’s willing to pay. One time. One act. The terms are very specific, and the money’s already in an account, collecting interest. I upload the file to a specific drop box, he collects it, the funds are released to us.”

“That’s more than three months’ rent!”

“For both of us.”

“Who is this pervert?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’ve tried tracing him several times. The trail always goes cold or ends up doubling back on itself. Finally, I gave up because it didn’t really matter.”

John sighed. “He wants you ‘held down and fucked.’ I assume ‘fucked’ means…”

“Penetrated anally until ejaculation. It’s in the terms. No faces, just bodies. Also, in the terms. You can, you must, read everything before you make a decision.”

“When did he make the offer?”

“Three months ago.”

“And why haven’t you done it before now?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I work alone.” He picked at the food on his plate. “But since you just…did what you just did…and you’re a doctor, soldier…and, I don’t know, there’s a kind of rapport, trust, isn’t there?”

“Yeah, there’s something there,” acknowledged John.

Their eyes met. Sherlock was the first to look away.

“I’m thinking about it now because, like you, I really like the flat, but by myself, I can only make a month or two of rent.”

“But you’ve already moved in!”

“It’s a great place, a great location, Mrs. Hudson’s a dear. I was, I am going to figure something out. In three months, I’ll have paying clients as a detective. In three months, you’ll be working at a surgery or a hospital. It’s just now…”

“Your brother…”

“Mycroft has cut me off. I don’t want that money anyway.”

John took a sip of beer, then said,

“You had a habit once.”

“Yes, but I’ve been clean for,” Sherlock’s eyes darted to the wall behind John, “six months.” He glanced back at John. “How?”

“I didn’t see tracks,” said John. “It just didn’t make sense why someone as clever as you was wanking on the internet for money.”

“All kinds of people do it, John, for all kinds of reasons. But we’ll get tested, naturally.”

“Yeah, we will.” John huffed. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

“I know. It’s ridiculous. You should leave. You should walk out. Right now.”

“I should. But I’m not going to. Because I _can_ walk out. And I _can_ jerk off. And, somehow, both are related to you, Sherlock Holmes. But I’m not an exhibitionist. I don’t know the first thing about performing for a camera. I might get too nervous to even…fulfill the terms,” he finished with an exasperated noise.

“I’ll coach you through every step.”

“Top from the bottom? I don’t think so,” said John, his attitude taking a sharp about-face. “If this pervert wants you held down and fucked, that’s what it’s going to be.”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, sir.”

John immediately softened and chuckled and felt his cheeks warm. “Sorry.” He rubbed his face with his hand and took another long sip of beer. “Sherlock, if we do this, we don’t necessarily…”

“No. We get paid. We get on with our lives.”

John nodded. “Well, it wouldn’t be a hardship. I mean, it’s no secret that I’m attracted to you physically. I paid for it. And I know,” he waved at his left shoulder, “you’re attracted to at least a bit of me.”

“I would have to insist that you cover the scar, John. I can also adjust the angle of the cameras and edit the final product so that it’s not seen.”

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock’s tone, which was suddenly cold and hard.

Sherlock’s face turned pink. His grey eyes flashed quicksilver. And he mumbled,

“That pervert doesn’t deserve…”

He didn’t finish his statement. He didn’t need to.

John smiled. “No, I suppose not. Any other conditions?”

“No kissing on the mouth.”

John chuckled again. “Like a whore in a film.”

“I am a whore in a film or hadn’t you noticed?”

It wasn’t the words, it was the tone, a different kind of hard, like a bark from a street dog that had been kicked once too often.

“Stop it.” John watched a shiver go through Sherlock’s body. “Don’t talk like that about yourself, or me, in that way. Understand?”

“Very well,” said Sherlock softly.

They fell into a silence.

John drank and turned the whole thing over in his mind. When he’d finished his second beer, he sniffed.

“What?” asked Sherlock.

“Held down. Scars. Watching. Most’ve got something, don’t they?”

“Indeed.”

* * *

Primly holding the sides of his bathrobe together at the neck, John padded across the hall and leaned against the doorframe and watched.

The bed was ready. The cameras were in place.

Sherlock was nude and seated on the edge of a straight wooden chair in the near corner of the room, as far as someone could be from the bed and cameras and still be in the room. His eyes were cast down at his mobile, which was on the floor, propped up against the wall. His hands were slick, and he was playing with his soft prick.

Recognising the image that held Sherlock’s fascination, John said, “You could’ve had the real thing.”

Sherlock shook his head.

John watched Sherlock in silence for a few minutes more, admiring his mastery over his ‘transport,’ remembering the earlier versions of the act that he had watched as an anonymous voyeur, committing to memory things Sherlock liked in case they ever did this again under less commercial circumstance, but mostly just getting hard and trying to get into character.

Captain Ormond Sacker.

When Sherlock’s prick was half-hard, he looked over at John. John immediately released his grip on the top of his bathrobe.

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.

John’s prick leapt at the approbation in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Dog tags are a nice touch, but, perhaps a bit…”

John stepped forward until he at Sherlock’s side, leaning over him. He opened the top of the bathrobe and let the tags dangle on a chain in front of Sherlock’s face.

“Captain Ormond Sacker,” read Sherlock, just before he caught one piece of metal in his teeth and bit, grinning. Sherlock released the tags and gave John a coquettish air kiss.

John let his hand drop, then roam all over Sherlock’s chest.

Mine, mine, mine, he chanted to himself as he caressed the smooth skin, rubbed the faint hair.

Sherlock wasn’t his, of course, but he would push such thoughts aside—at least for immediate future. He had a part to play.

Captain Ormond Sacker.

With one hand, John kept touching Sherlock, toying with his nipples, tracing his clavicle with his fingertips, feeling the muscle beneath the cool skin, and he was absurdlly gratified when Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back a little, seeming to be enjoying, perhaps even savouring the touch. Sherlock had slowed the stroking of his own prick, and the hand that was fondling his balls was still.

Mine, mine, mine. This gorgeous fuck is mine.

John was hard.

He circled Sherlock until he stood directly in front of him. Then he placed his hand at the base of Sherlock throat.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and met John’s gaze.

John pressed. Then he bent one arm and laid the forearm across Sherlock and pressed again.

‘Held. Down. This is held down,’ he said silently.

Sherlock blinked once, then gave a minute nod.

With his free hand, John untied the sash of his bathrobe and let the garment fall open.

“I’ll never understand why you didn’t want a peek at the goods before now.”

Without moving his head, Sherlock let his eyes flit to John’s prick and he growled, “The way you walk was guarantee enough, Captain.” Then he licked his lips. “In case you’re worried, you’ll do nicely.”

John stifled a laugh. “I wasn’t, but for the record, so will you.”

Sherlock reached into the pocket of the dressing gown that was hanging on the chair. John caught the small bottle of lube as it leapt towards him. He let the bathrobe fall and set about slicking his prick.

“You need someone to take care of you, gorgeous,” said John in a voice a bit harder than his own.

“Yes, sir,” murmured Sherlock in a voice far softer than his own. He looked up at John through long dark eyelashes and resumed playing with himself.

“Make certain you eat.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And sleep.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And switch off that supercomputer brain of yours once in a while so it can rest.”

Sherlock’s lip quivered. “Yes, sir.”

Finished with his task, John dropped the lube on top of his bathrobe and leaned down, letting the dog. tags hang once more. When he whispered in Sherlock’s ear, he schooled his voice into an even rawer, rougher tone.

“Time to stretch that pretty hole with the prick it was made for.”

As if smacked with a ruler, Sherlock’s hands went to his thighs and gripped them. “Yes, sir!” he breathed and glanced behind him.

John jerked a nod toward the bed. “Go.”

* * *

They stood very close, facing each other, Sherlock’s legs against the edge of the bed.

“Ready?” asked Sherlock.

“Ready when you are.”

“Lights, camera…”

SLAM!

John threw Sherlock onto the bed so hard he bounced. Not wasting a moment, John crawled after him, tags swinging, jangling. He pinned Sherlock’s thighs open with his own legs. He sat up and stroked how own cock once, twice, thrice. It was for show, for the camera, but it felt good. His prick was hard, and he had no doubt it would stay that way for a while. He relished the way Sherlock was looking at him, so hungry, so wanting. Deep down, he knew that was for show, too, but, god, who cared, it felt so very good.

John pitched forward and took both of Sherlock’s wrists in his hands. He jerked them over Sherlock’s head and with a vice grip held them fast to the bed. He brought his face to Sherlock’s.

“You’re going to be held down and fucked, gorgeous.”

Sherlock arched beneath him.

“Yes?” prompted John.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?!”

John let go of Sherlock’s wrists but warned,

“Keep them there.”

Then he rose up, momentarily drinking in the sight of this extraordinary creature laid out beneath him before bending forward once more to lay a hand at the base of Sherlock’s neck.

Held down. This was held down.

Sherlock pushed back, as if resisting, as if trying to rise and throw John off, but one look into those grey eyes reassured John that Sherlock was exactly where he wanted to be.

John leaned heavier on Sherlock and brought his other hand to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yes, what?!” he repeated.

Sherlock actually trembled, a full-body shiver that John could see rippling through him.

“Yes, sir. I want it. So much.”

At that, John laid his forearm across Sherlock’s chest and used his other arm to hoist one of Sherlock’s bent legs even higher. John hadn’t doubted Sherlock’s claims of flexibility, but he still marveled how he kept his legs in place, a feat John was certain he would not be able to achieve were their positions reversed.

John moved his prickhead at Sherlock’s hole, then, without preamble, pushed it in.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, then exhaled a single ragged breath as the prick sank into him. John would have taken it slower, been a bit more careful, but Captain Sacker, he’d decided, was a bit of a bastard.

“That’s right,” said John. “Take all of it at once.”

Sherlock hummed. His eyes were slits now. John could not read their expression at all. He frowned, then Sherlock lifted his chin and raised his hips and clenched ‘round John’s prick.

John heard the message loud and clear.

C’mon, Captain, get on with it.

John leaned down, curling himself ‘round Sherlock, as he bottomed out.

They groaned together, hollow and deep.

John wanted badly to kiss Sherlock, to kiss every part of him, but he shook his head sharply shooing away soft desire like a buzzing mosquito.

Do get on with it, Captain.

The spectacle of being held down dissolved a bit as John began to thrust. He kept one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder but moved the other to the bed for better bracing. Sherlock, too, used his raised hands to keep himself from slamming into the headboard.

Bang! bang! bang!

John began to grunt along with the rhythm as he sped up.

Oh, god. This was it. The money shot.

He quickly pulled out and spent himself on Sherlock’s chest, and at once, Sherlock grabbed his own cock. In three quick strokes, he was coming too.

John stared at the mess on Sherlock’s chest and belly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock slide a hand beneath a pillow.

“Cut. And that’s a wrap.”

John was panting. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

Sherlock was panting, too, but he sniffed then nodded, then said slowly,

“That was amazing.”

John caught the teasing light in Sherlock’s eye, and he hadn’t missed the parody in his voice. “You think so?” he countered, not even attempting to imitate Sherlock’s posh baritone.

Sherlock grinned. “Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Can’t remember. Been quite a while. Spend most of my days wanking to some tosser on the internet.”

They both erupted into peals of laughter.

John collapsed atop Sherlock. He immediately rolled to the side, still giggling, with his face still buried in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. He kissed and nuzzled and made little snorting noises. When he reached Sherlock’s cheek, he stopped.

“Sorry,” he said. “After, I get a bit…”

John made to roll away, but Sherlock’s long arm caught him.

“I remember.”

John looked back, his cheeks warm.

“It’s all right,” insisted Sherlock. “Nice, even.” He reached out a hand and fingered the dog tags. He inched closer and put his lips to John’s back. “You really were amazing.”

“Good.” John tore off the dog tags and pressed them into Sherlock’s palm. “Tea?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

**Check your bank balance.**

Ten seconds.

John had held Sherlock in a tight embrace for ten seconds before thumping him on the back and releasing him. John had dropped his arms, but he hadn’t left. He had barely stepped backwards. They were still standing close, incredibly close, in the middle of the hall.

“Now you know why someone like me was wanking on the internet.”

The phrase had sounded much cleverer in Sherlock’s head when he’d rehearsed it. But when the moment arrived to deliver his line, he’d been so distracted by the hug and it effect on him that his voice had cracked.

“You bet I do. More than three months’ rent for a few minutes’ work?”

“Yeah.”

John sighed. “I’m so relieved, Sherlock. I didn’t want to leave here. Didn’t want to leave you. It already feels like home.”

Not trusting his voice, Sherlock simply nodded.

“Oh, I’ve got an interview at a surgery tomorrow.”

Sherlock found his voice. “And I’ve got a lead on a client.”

“This is going to work.”

There were many things Sherlock wanted to say, but what he said was,

“Are you certain that you don’t want to see the final product?”

“Well.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, I’d almost convinced myself it was a scam until now. Yeah, why not?”

Sherlock turned, and John followed him into the bedroom.

* * *

Sherlock sat at the desk. John stood behind him.

As soon as the video began, Sherlock swiveled in the chair and rolled backward so that he could see John. After a minute, he asked,

“Do you want to be alone?”

“Nah,” replied John absently, but Sherlock could already observe the effect that the video was having.

John liked to watch. And now he was watching himself and Sherlock. And Sherlock was watching him.

“Oh, god, Sherlock…”

Sherlock watched John become aroused.

The plan was working.

From the time that John had agreed to the proposal until the moment that Sherlock had wired the split payment to his and John’s accounts, Sherlock had not let himself think of John as anything other than a colleague. He’d dammed up all the softer sentiments related to John and not permitted himself to feel anything but polite cordiality and respect. He’d considered hundreds of possible seductions, however, since he’d texted John about the money.

It was funny how getting one thing you wanted made you so greedy for all the other things you wanted.

Sherlock wanted everything with John.

Flatmates, yes, colleagues, yes, friends, as incredible as it was, yes.

And lovers.

Did John even realise that his hand was on the front of his trousers, which was betraying a slight bulge, and that his hips were rocking in time to his onscreen doppelgänger? Might Sherlock simply roll closer, open John’s trousers, free his erection, and begin to pleasure him all while John’s attention was still riveted on their performance? Was he that lost in watching?

No, he wasn’t.

“Sherlock!”

John’s prick was standing tall. The tip of Sherlock’s tongue had brushed it.

“Just keep watching, John.”

“Yeah?” he slurred. His expression was debauched.

“Yeah,” urged Sherlock.

John slowly turned his gaze back to the screen.

Sherlock took John’s prickhead, then half the shaft in his mouth and sucked, feeling himself grow painfully hard in the process.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock. You look so beautiful. I can’t even believe it’s me. I can’t even believe that I got to fuck…”

John’s hands went to his waist. Sherlock slipped his own hand beneath John’s and pushed his trousers and pants down. Then, naturally, Sherlock grabbed John’s arse, as he’d wanted to do, but refrained from doing, every damn day since John had come into his life, including the one when John had shagged him senseless.

“God, it almost over. Can I fuck your beautiful mouth, Sherlock? Please.”

Of course. That was the point! Sometimes John was an idiot!

But, thankfully, Sherlock’s beautiful mouth was too full to reply.

So he simply hummed, and John groaned. He also gripped Sherlock by the hair with both hands, an act that sent shocks of pleasure to Sherlock’s prick.

John began to thrust, first, shallow, then deeper. Sherlock felt John’s muscles tense.

“Sherlock, Sherlock…”

A patting of Sherlock’s head and pulling away, but Sherlock didn’t want that. He gripped John’s buttocks, relaxed his own throat, and pulled John close.

“Oh, fuck…”

John’s knees buckled as he came. Sherlock held him up and swallowed.

John found his footing and began caressing Sherlock’s face, his hair, everywhere his hands could reach.

The video had been a deliberate seduction. What happened next was, in part, also planned. Or at least hoped for.

John yanked up his pants and trousers, then fell to his knees and began unbuttoning his shirt. He tore it and the vest beneath off.

“Why haven’t you asked to see it yet? I was certain it’d be the first thing you’d ask.”

Frankness had paid off with John before, so Sherlock said,

“I was afraid you’d think I only liked you because of it.”

John smiled. “It’s part of me, Sherlock. And I’m not stupid. I know it’s the only reason you gave me a second thought in the beginning.”

Sherlock felt a pang at this truth. “But now…”

Everything was different now. John must see that.

“Sherlock, the first thing I ever saw was your prick and your hand, but I don’t just want to watch you wank. I mean, yes,” he tilted his head and smirked, “I do think about catching you wanking to the photo then busting in and making you come all over it…”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “So do I,” he squeaked.

John chuckled. “…and when I come out of the shower…”

“I think about you bending me over the basin and fucking me,” he tapped his lips and considered for a moment, “But can’t we fuck in the shower, too?”

“Sure. How ‘bout catching you with one hand down your trousers and the other lifting my sleeve up when I fall asleep on the sofa?”

“Or in the morning while you’re sleeping in my bed …”

Sherlock stopped and bit his lip.

Too much. Too bloody much. His throat was tight, and he felt feverish.

Here. This was the second part of the plan. There was so much Sherlock couldn’t say, didn’t know how to say properly, didn’t trust himself to say.

But John did. And after he came, he was always a bit…

John leaned forward and put his arms around Sherlock’s waist and looked up.

“I want all that, too. Every filthy idea that crosses our heads. But I also want crap telly and tea and puzzles and squabbling about how much space your chemical apparatus takes up of the kitchen table and what that thing is in the bread bin. All of it. I want all of it, all of you.”

That. Yes.

Sherlock nodded. “All of you, John!”

“Well, start with this part.” John twisted sideways.

And Sherlock saw the scar.

And for a while, that was all he saw.

“John.”

“That good, is it?”

“Better. I want to study it systematically, but…”

“Go on. You had your seduction, let me have mine.”

Sherlock blinked and tore his attention from John’s scar to John’s smiling face.

“I’m not stupid, Sherlock. I didn’t know how to go about it, either. You’re the clever one. I knew you’d come up with something.”

“You’re the one who knows how to …” Sherlock waved a hand, which John grabbed and crumpled in his own and then kissed.

“You’ll get better at it. And I’ll get cleverer. But for now, go on and lick it. That’s what you want to do first, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course, but John, I do, that is…”

“Worry about that later. Go on.”

Ten seconds.

It took Sherlock ten seconds to drag his tongue from the bottommost edge of the scar to its centre.

It was bliss. Ten seconds of utter bliss.

But then it got better. Then Sherlock heard John’s sigh.

“I love you, too, Sherlock. And I think that we just may be a match made in fetish.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
